You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead
by chezchuckles
Summary: post-ep oneshot for Headhunters


**You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead**

* * *

If you forget how to feel  
Reach inside your chest  
Is there a heart beating?  
Is it just emptiness?

-"Mistakes and Regrets," ...And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead

* * *

Ridiculous. Slaughter practically-

Kate Beckett checks her walk, turns back to the man still recovering in the hall.

"Castle? Is that - was that your _coat_?"

He's still hunched over, breathing noisily through his mouth. His eyes glance up to her and he nods, vigorously at first, then wincingly.

She stands over him, arms crossed. "Why does he have your coat?"

Castle waves her off, wheezing, but now she thinks it's entirely for effect. She rolls her eyes and pivots, mouth pressed into a line, rising frustration and-

She jerks as if on the end of a leash, glances back to see Castle has caught the edge of her black blazer and is tugging her back. She raises an eyebrow and he lifts upright, hunches over again, a hand pressed to his abdomen, then straightens up more slowly.

She sighs and steps back to him, dislodging his hand as she does. She waits for Castle to get himself together and when he does, she invites him to share with a brief gesture of her hand, irritated by how much it affects her - how much he affects her.

"Tit for tat," he explains gruffly.

"That's how you got the ride-along? You bribed him."

"No. Actually, I got the ride-along because I'm friends with the mayor and he has a hearing-"

"Castle," she sighs, rubbing the heel of her hand against the ridge of her eyebrow.

"I'm - I said I would go. Give a statement."

She drops her hand and regards him for a moment. "At least I know you'll do the right thing. You won't lie to-" She shakes her head, but he's watching her now with that halting and awkward shift of his eyes.

Something has changed. She doesn't know what or how, but it's something she did _or didn't do_, and now there's _this_ between them, stinking up the place like a dead body left out in the sun for days. A trail of dead scattered from him to her - victims of whatever this is.

She half-closes her eyes, twists on her heel to leave him, feels his hand at her jacket again, a point of connection.

"Wait," he says quietly, his voice rough with that sucker punch. Yeah, she feels about the same - coming out of nowhere, probably for something she did days ago that she doesn't even _know, _cutting off her air-

"Wait?" she asks, barely clamping her teeth down around _that's rich coming from you._

"I'm - I just - wanted to shake things up. But I don't - I'm best here. With you."

She stares at him, her chest loosening - she didn't even realize it was tight, didn't realize she's been walking around unable to draw a deep breath.

"Why do things need to be shaken up at all?" she asks, hears the way her voice sounds in the bullpen. The anger and passion she displayed in her therapist's office are stripped away; all that remains is the hurt confusion. It's not attractive.

He gives her a half-shrug, not looking at her. Her heart sinks, reminding her it's there, it's still struggling to beat, despite being weighted like a stone. She has to close her eyes, just for a moment, just to reestablish the old barriers, to armor herself again. She's at work; the trial is coming up in two days; she needs focus.

Not this. The rot of failure, of missed moments, of broken-

Okay. Enough.

Beckett strides off briskly, arms slightly swinging as she heads for the conference room. Breathing. In and out. She can do this; it's not any different from the last few weeks. It's only when she's around him that things start falling apart. Just a little distance and she'll be-

"Beckett," he calls after her. She can hear his feet scurrying to catch up. She quickens her pace like an immature child, slows down when she realizes she's running.

She is not running. No more of that.

He follows her inside the conference room and when she gets the table between them and turns around, he's already shutting the door.

Oh no.

He keeps his eyes on her, takes a deep breath she can actually see. "I'm sorry?"

She rocks back, stunned by the _question_ in his apology.

He shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't - I never intended to risk your job."

So at least he gets it. He's not stupid; he cares-

He cares.

If that's all she can have, then - then it will have to do. She'll have to figure out how to work around that, how to make that enough. How to breathe around him without feeling it like razors.

He nods his head again, dropping his eyes, his hands twisting on the knob as if to leave. Then he makes a noise and turns back to her.

"I didn't - I know you have my back. All that matters, really. And the guys - I think they saved my life with Valez," he huffs, a fake laugh that falls flat in the empty air between them. He swallows. "Partners again?"

And it's too much. It really is. All those questions in his voice, everything a question. "I wasn't the one who quit being partners in the first place. Ryan even said you were cheating on us."

His mouth drops open; he blinks as he looks at her. "_No_ - no." And then he hangs his head, lifts it, studies her intently. "No," he insists, softer now.

"No? Coulda fooled me."

He comes farther into the room, sinks down in an open chair, puts his fingertips on the files arranged neatly over the table's surface, head down. "I'm sorry for that too."

All the other words that she wanted to say only twenty-four hours ago, they fall dead before her, victims to the silence, to the sudden doubt that fills all the many empty places between them. They used to be more in sync than this.

"I'm having trouble writing," he says quickly, his voice rushing out into the vacuum.

She looks at him, astonished. "What?"

"Writer's block. It happens," he says, shrugging but not looking at her.

Writer's block. "But I was your - am your - I - you can't write anything?"

He shakes his head, eyes still on the table.

"Is that my fault?" she asks, the question tumbling out of her before she can even stop it, and she winces, averts her eyes but can't keep from looking at him. Wanting to know.

He pauses too long. She's a trained interrogator; he pauses too long. "No."

Meaning, _yes._

"Is this what happened with Sophia Turner?" Ah, shit. She shouldn't have said that. She flutters her hand between them as if to wipe it away. "No. Sorry. Not my - that was too much."

But he's still sitting there, looking at her, stunned and tremulous. "It's - it's similar. She wasn't in love with me, ei-" He cuts off, blinks rapidly, stands up.

It's similar. It's close to the same. With the woman who was a traitor and a manipulative-

Oh God.

Focus. Work. She's at work. This is - irrelevant to the job. Her case, her testimony. Lay out the evidence. Look at the evidence. Not him.

She hears the click of the knob and her heart pounds, thick and mutinous in her throat. "Castle-"

The door shuts. She takes in a shaky breath and bites her bottom lip, tries to swallow past the remnants of her heart. So he left and-

"Kate?"

She stumbles, glances up at him swiftly. He's still here.

"It's not the same," he says, shaking his head. "I wasn't in love with her. Not like - not really."

Her shoulders slump, her chest eases. She manages to get a breath and she nods back at him. "Good."

He tries a smile, lackluster, but it's the best she's seen from him since-

But he's smiling now. Forget before. Now is good.

She lets herself smile back, her heart settling back into its rightful place.

"You still doing trial prep?" he says suddenly, nodding to the stacks on the conference room table.

She nods.

"Need a break?"

"Yeah," she breathes, finding her equilibrium again.

"Let's go get coffee. Away from here." He crooks his arm and holds out his elbow, familiar gestures all.

"Yeah. Good idea," she says back, rounding the table. When she gets to his side, he turns for the door, still waiting on her.

Still waiting on her.

Kate slides her arm through his and the world shifts back into focus.


End file.
